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RPlog:Man-to-Man
Cleared Area (Before Main House) - Karrde's Base - Myrkr Central to the base is this open area between the main buildings is this open expanse, with its meticulously trimmed bluish-green grass and the occasional dotting of wildflowers. When necessary this area can be used for anything from special (and discreet) picnic-type gatherings to the organization of certain cargo before and after shipping. Often the clearing is the location of Karrde Group employees exercising, playing some simple lawn games, or simply enjoying the outdoors in between duty shifts. The main house is just to the southeast of the clearing; far to the west is the hanger, while the barracks are situated against the trees to the north. The Players: Jessalyn: The composure of this young human woman is probably the most striking thing about her. Though otherwise unassuming, her expression is one of surprising coherence and calm, belied only by the slightly mischievous gleam in her leaf green eyes. Shining dark red hair falls in unruly silken waves down to the middle of her back, framing her wide cheekbones and smooth, pale skin not as fragile as most redheads'. She is relatively tall for a human woman, with long-boned limbs and a natural grace amplified by her skills. Jessa is dressed in a drab green sleeveless shirt, and a pair of kakhi pants with plenty of pockets. Around her waist is a black leather utility belt. Her hair is held back from her face and clipped behind her head, though stray curling locks continue to fall into her eyes. The fit of her trousers and the sturdy brown suede boots on her legs emphasize her narrow waist and the long-legged rhythm of her strides. Simon: Before you is a young human male of average height and narrow build. His hair is a deep brown, parted and cut short. A strong jawline and deepset eyes of blue-gray give the man a stern look at a glance. For facial hair he wears a well groomed goatee and mustache, trimmed short and of the same deep color as the rest of his hair. All in all, the man's demeanor can be summed up in a word: aware. Simon is dressed in earth tones. Light tan, loose fitting trousers are tucked into soft leather boots that come up to just under his knees, and are tied tight with brown, leather chords. Tucked into the top of his pants is a simple shirt of a matching color. Over this is a loose wool tunic of dark brown, covering his arms completely and hanging down below his waste. It's comfortable clothing, suitable for most climates and cultures. Strapped diagnolly across his chest and back is what appears to be some sort of harness. It's worn in the way some people wear a bandolier, yet there is nothing attached to the device. A long shaft of cylinder rises over his left shoulder, a rod sheathed where some warriors sling their sword. Drew: Drew is a tall, leggy blonde. You know the type; legs up to her chin, arms down to her ankles, lots and lots of crazy blonde hair. Her bedroom eyes are of a grayish, peridot green, her skin is a peachy tan, and her nose is heavily freckled. The hair is of a honey color, in artfully disheveled waves down to her shoulders. She's past her teens, and probably most of her twenties too, but it's hard to tell with her. She has the kind of body an athlete would have, good shoulders, a narrow waist, and coltish limbs. Her cheeks have a constant blush to them, much like some who live in cold weather; her nose seems to have been broken sometime, it is a tad long and slightly hooked. She wears a standard spacer's outfit. Comfortable brown pants reinforced at the knee with darker leather, tucked into soft ankle boots and a tan, stretchy shirt. If weather and situation call for it, she carries a blaster in a shoulder holster under a dark brown leather jacket. Orson: Too short, not handsome, and a little too old. What's lacking in looks has to be made up for with something strong on the inside: determination and persistence, a certain grit evident in the look sent by his slate gray eyes. Lines around this human male's mouth and eyes tell of hard days and decisions in his past, each one a new crease in an otherwise young man's face. He is smaller framed, though quite stout with a barrel chest and strong shoulders. Still, he's not overly muscled, simply in good physical shape. Dark hair is kept in a simple style but is more often than not in a disheveled state. A few lonely gray hairs touch his temples. He might be around forty standard years old. He has a larger nose, on a round-shaped, bold face that is quick with a grin but usually caught up in a shade of thoughtful. He is wearing fur pants, thick white, large and billowing at the legs. A black tank top covers his thick barrel chest; while fit and stout, he is not overly muscled. A gray scarf encircles his waist, evening the dark and light on the man and helping keep his clothes in place. It has been knotted on one side and trails almost all the way to the ground. Soft-soled but thick boots cover his feet. An oversized set of goggles are strapped to his head, stretchy material securing them in an 'X' shaped band around the back of his skull. The lenses are tinted rose red. With the sun beginning to set in the West, the sky overhead is a hazy purple, fading into a oranges and pinks on the horizon. A mild wind rustles the leaves of the trees surrounding the compound, and Karrde's people continue to buzz around the area like ants on a mound that's just been kicked. Sitting on a reinforced crate near the entryway to the barracks, Simon Sezirok sits with his back to the wall. His new staff is leaned across his lap, with one end sitting on the ground, the other end in his hands. A short knife is in his right hands, and his eyes are squinted in concentration as he works on the carving of the rose. Occasionally he applies his tool to the wood in fine strokes, occasionally he leans over his work and blows shavings and splinters clear. The door to the barracks groans and slides roughly over its track as it opens. About head high, a little crate flies out, sailing out of the barracks and hitting the flat grass with a bouncing, awkward roll. Orson is right behind it, carrying an armload of similar-sized boxes, each one overflowing with small mechanical parts and objects. He's muttering about something; as soon as he clears the doorway, he gives his armload a little toss, creating a trashpile with some angry delight. "Ha!" the mechanic grunts, kicking one stray box back into the pile. As he turns for another trip into the building, he stops. Simon. Perfect. With a touch to his shoulder bandage and a slight hitch of his fur pants, the man eases over to the Selas, greeting the man with as neutral a tone as he can muster. "So," he intones, waving his hand flatly towards Simon, paralleling the staff's angle. He doesn't say anything else. This is a fill-in-the-blank game. Simon pulls his eyes away from his work and gives Orson a flat, emotionless look. Though he'd become better with Basic, the language he once considered the Secret Tongue of the Selas Brotherhood, it was still a second language to him, and as such, sublte communication was occasionally challenging. Scratching his head, Simon looks between Orson and his staff, a puzzled expression on his face. Finally, Simon offers his weapon to the shorter man, saying, "You want to see my staff?" Orson had planned to, at the beginning of this impulse, have words with Simon. Sure, the mechanic wasn't interested in making a play for the tall red head. But perhaps she could be called off-limits. They were in a war, whether any of them wanted to admit it, and some logic on why the two shouldn't be falling in love is slowly forming on his lips. He wanted revenge on Simon. For the kiss. More than that: for being close. That falls apart, mostly, as Simon presents the staff. "The rose," he says, gripping the wood loosely and bringing Simon's work to his face. "That is for Jessalyn, isn't it?" The shorter man looks down on the Selas, slowly testing the balance of the weapon. Simon nods, then rises to his feet. He plants his hands on his hips and twists at his waist for a moment, his lower back giving off a barely audible crack as he loosens joints that had stiffened. He must have sat there carving for some time. When he turns back to Orson, he dons a congenial smile and nods again. "Briefly, our souls had been very close," Simon explains. "The staff is a facet of my soul, while roses and sweet smelling flowers that grow wild are a facet of hers. In a vision provided by the True Source, I was shown that she and I would be bound together in a way that I can not yet understand. As Jessa has carved herself into my heart, so have I carved her symbol into my staff." "The True Source," Orson repeats, feigning a slow attack on Simon's figure with his own staff. He's testing it. In one way, it would be an insult to not try a move with it. In another way, Orson's awkward grip and stance seem a mockery of a move Simon had exhibited just a few hours ago. "It is the same thing as the Force?" The awful thing about this True Source was, whether Simon was using it to justify his advances on Jessalyn or he really did have a vision, it sounded very absolute. And while Orson has resigned himself to playing the supportive friend role, it makes him a little glum. "I'm just her friend," he says suddenly. "And yours. That's all. I'm sorry if." He shrugs, pointing the staff at Simon. "That's it." Rather than taking the staff back from Orson, he moves to stand behind the shorter man. He grabs Orson's hands and places them in a more conventional position on the weapon, then places his own hands on the staff alongside the mechanics. It was not terribly unlike when he'd been shown the proper use of the weapon when he was much younger. He speaks as he guides Orson through a more proper strike. "You do not need to explain anything," Simon says. He starts to move the weapon in Orson's hands another direction, then says, "Loosen your arms and unlock your knees. No, you do not need to explain anything. I have grown too suspicious of people of late. I should not get in the way of the friendship between you and Jessa, for she can use all the friends she can get. Don't lead with your head." Completely oblivious to the fact that she is a subject of intense conversation, Jessalyn then emerges from the barracks, her hands reaching behind her head as she secures her long, thick hair into a loose tail that trails down her neck in silky waves. She seems to be starting down the path that leads into the forest when she catches sight of the two men locked in what seems to be a combat lesson. Stiffening, the redhead forces a smile as she takes a few steps forward. "Hi," she calls, uncertain if she should proceed, or linger to find out what exactly is going on between them. "Schwa-pa," Orson clucks as he and Simon guide the staff through an imaginary target. He's a quick study, at least while the technique is so fresh in his mind and the form so properly demonstrated. He breaks loose politely from Simon and repeats the motion. Then, he pauses and looks to the carving once more, wheeling the weapon around once in his grip and offering it back to the Selas. "I will try not to," he replies to the bit about leading with his head. How Karrde would be disappointed to hear this news. They were wary of him, leading with his heart instead. "There she is," Orson says, turning to join Simon's side. A show of their unitedness, for her. The Selas smiles a crooked, slightly amused smile as Orson performs the move. He had room for improvement, without a doubt, but he did appear to grasp the basics plainly, and quickly. He and Jessalyn both projected their targets with their shoulders a bit more than Simon would like, but he couldn't expect less. They had both been born in a world where blasters and projectile weapons were the norm, not staffs and bladed weapons. As Orson steps to Simon's side, he gives the fellow a curious look before turning his eyes toward Jessalyn, seeing her for the first time. His crooked smile becomes a broad grin. Holding his staff vertically in front of him, Simon boys slightly at his waist to the slender woman, then says upon straightening, "You have caught us, sweet Jessa. We were speaking of you." "Oh?" Jessa turns her gaze from one to the other and back again, managing an easy smile, though inwardly aware of the potential for conflict there. She had tried to defuse any growing discontent between them, but wasn't sure if her efforts would really do any good. Still, she saunters toward them easily enough as she finishes tying off her ponytail, tilting her head head to the side, and resting her hands on her hips. "Good things, I hope." "Of course," the mechanic replies quietly, voice just out of sync with his easy-going smile. "Simon was showing me a few moves, too." Orson reorients his broad shoulders to Simon. "Since we're here," he starts, squinting. "You had mentioned that you had a few ideas about our next step. Jessalyn?" Forward motion seems a good idea to the mechanic, who can feel himself becoming stuck in an emotional rut. Helpless. Still, the Myrkr vacation has been a chance for some things to settle in his mind, and now Orson shows the first signs of coming to terms with his decisions. Caught off guard, Jessalyn pauses, running her hands down her bare arms and casting a glance toward Simon. "I wasn't present for the conversation, but I believe Simon and Mr. Karrde discussed a potential plan for us," she says slowly as she comes upon them, the troubled expression in her eyes now more clearly visible. Her green eyes linger on the Selas, and she straightens her spine rigidly. "Do you really think he'd be willing to work with us?" she asks Simon hesitantly. It's Simon's turn to look caught off guard. His brow furrows, and he studies the rose he'd carved into his staff. The next step after leaving he'd been particularly non-specific about, and for good reason. "Karrde means to be clever in dealing with the Empire," Simon says, slowly. "He means to find the Death Star and pass that information over to the New Republic, which has the information it needs to find a weakness. We will help with this, but not in the way that Karrde is moving. We should be like wolves, biting at the Empire's flanks, then falling back into the shadows. I do not know where Karrde is to go next, and Karrde does not know where we are to go. For the safety of each other, is it not better this way?" "Is it?" Orson asks pointedly. He'd imagined being separated from this group, certainly. But completely unaware of their whereabouts was a different matter, and he's strangly reluctant to be rid of them. "Without coordinating your work with something larger, it seems that you might be less effective. I don't know." Orson looks from Simon to Jessalyn, shaking his head, using his last comment to soften his response and make for an easy conversational parry to anyone who wished to knock the technician's comment aside. Drew appears from the path leading into the main building, a datapad in her hand. She steps into the clearing slowly, once she notices Orson is with the Selas and the Jedi. Maybe the delivery can wait. She halts, then, drumming her fingers on the datapad, debating on whether or not she should interrupt. Admittedly, Jessalyn is not a tactician, and she's not one to go second-guessing the plans of those who are much more experienced in the field. She licks her lips, glancing at Simon, her brow furrowed. "Simon might be right. The Emperor could easily pry information out of any of us, no matter how much we think we can resist his methods." She shrugs, a little uneasy, perhaps sensing some lingering tension between them. She had left the building hoping to find some respite in the forest, prepared to spend an hour or two focusing on her physical limits rather than her emotional ones. But on Myrkr, that just doesn't seem possible. "Do you think we can be useful, Simon?" Simon looks between Orson and Jessa, not yet noticing Drew at the periphery. It all seemed so straight forward to him. Was it a limit of his grasp of Basic? Was it some other difference between he and Jessa and Orson that was making it hard to see eye to eye on this? At least Jessalyn seemed to have some idea of what he was saying. He responds, "Yes, we will be useful. We will be the itch that the Empire wants to scratch, letting Talon Karrde and the rest of his people to do what they need to do. We will be a useful distraction." Orson quirks his lips nodding. "Ah, I understand now." Yes, the mechanic understands, the next step completely formed in his mind. Karrde would never endorse this sort of idea, at least not in Orson's view. The dangerous trio was capable, a resource to be tapped into. If the smuggler wasn't doing that, it was for a reason: Karrde was allowing the Selas to feel useful. The point was to get them as far from Karrde and his people as possible. The mechanic presses his lips together, still nodding. Orson had been in the captain's seat long enough. Perhaps it was better to let things play out in their own way, without his insistence one way or the other. "You'll need transportation. A place to go. And transportation after the fact. Where will you go?" Orson sees Drew directly and gives her a tentative smile, eyes inviting her over. That's enough encouragement. Drew steps up to the three, and hands Orson the datapad. From the way she hands it in, it probably isn't very important. Her eyes linger on the Selas and the Jedi, then return to her associate's. They're talking about the future. Good. Maybe if they made plans instead of just being reactive, then things will improve. She struggles to keep the look on her face neutral, as she says, "Good evening." Jessalyn's gaze lingers on Orson, uncertainty touching her mouth; she's become very good at reading the faces that go along with the emotions she can sense through the Force, and even without benefit of those Jedi senses, she can still rely on those perceptions. "Hi, Drew," she says to the blonde as she approaches the rest of them. "I'm not sure where we should strike first," she goes on, addressing Orson's question. "Would you be willing to pilot for us, Orson?" She turns her head, all attention on the small-framed mechanic, still standing with her hands firmly on her hips. Man-to-Man